


homecoming king

by Setkia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Homecoming, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Referenced/Implied Suicide Attempt, lots of space metaphors, these idiots i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: There is no falling for Oikawa Tōru.Falling implies an end. It implies a beginning. It assumes there’s a way to explain what happens to his chest and his throat and hissoulwhen caramel eyes look at him. Falling would mean Hajime hasn’t always been in love with the man who shines brighter than any star in the multitude of galaxies.





	homecoming king

**Author's Note:**

> So I was listening to _Homecoming King_ by Andy Black and this happened. I hope you guys like it. I think the ending's a bit weird but ... It is what it is.
> 
> Also I named Oikawa's sister Akira because I couldn't just be like "and she has no name!"

It makes sense Oikawa would be Homecoming King.

Hajime has  _eyes_ , thank you very much, and contrary to popular belief, he _isn’t_ jealous.

Oikawa deserves this. After a year spent in hell, with the weight of the entire team on his shoulders, and Shiratorizawa, and going up against his _kouhai_. His collapsing knee doesn’t help matters, and the scouts who show up at their games have been wearing him thin, and he’s still undecided about which university he’s going to, even as time runs out. He’s been on a gruelling schedule with little time to breathe, so he deserves the title, and the dance.

Hajime wants to burn the Homecoming Queen’s fingers off.

_Don’t touch him._

The only reason Oikawa’s not crushing her toes right now is because Akira, his older sister, wanted to take ballroom dancing, and used him for practice. If his movements are still awkward, it’s because he was shorter than her at the time and only knows how to follow. He’s watching his feet not because he’s shy, but because he’s acutely aware of their height and weight difference and even if Oikawa wasn’t gifted in math, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that stepping on her open-toed stilettos would end with a hospital visit. If she knew what was good for her, she’d do it, so she’d stop stumbling _directly_ into his bad ankle. 

The dance is a complete disaster.

It hurts to watch her attempts at flirting. Oikawa’s smiling politely and restrained. Can’t she see his eyes are missing their trademark sparkle? He’s awkward with girls, and crying ones are his biggest weakness. If Hajime had a yen for every girl Oikawa rejected and then agreed to date just to get them to stop crying, the world would be bankrupt. Those relationships were always short and fleeting. They would always get disappointed when they realized Oikawa Tōru is a person with more depth than curly hair and stupid peace-signs.

When he looks up at her, she gets all pink in the face. He’s not staring, he’s looking over her shoulder and blinking oddly. She’d know that if she paid attention. His contacts were moved around when they dragged him through the crowd to get his crown of plastic. It’s gaudy and tacky and it doesn’t suit him at all. A tinfoil hat would be more appropriate and he’d be smiling instead of wincing like he’s in pain. But she doesn’t know that.

Not knowing about his peanut butter allergy is grounds for a restraining order. So is ignorance of the Sonic Screwdriver that’s hanging on his wall at home, (it’s Ten’s, even though his favourite Doctor is Four. He thinks the reboot is trying too hard) and the _Enlist in Starfleet_ poster that he found at a garage sale when he was eleven, and has never changed location, directly across from his bed so it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up (she’s also clueless to the fact he likes _Star Trek_ more than _Star Wars_ , because he says exploration trumps explosions any day).

She doesn’t know about the time he painted his nails because Akira did it, and spent a month with rainbow toes, and liked peeling the polish off his thumb the most. She hasn’t got a clue he un-ironically sings _Never Gonna Give You Up_ every time they’re at the karaoke bar, or that he’s such a lightweight he prefers to be the designated driver.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose. The Homecoming Queen asks what’s wrong. He says he’s got a headache from the punch. He didn’t drink any. He’s nauseated by the pop-music blaring at top volume. He prefers Bach and Beethoven.

The Homecoming Queen doesn’t know about the medication he’s been prescribed for his knee. The medication he doesn’t take for fear of getting addicted. She’s unaware that he’s sweltering under the strobe lights and he’s trying to remember if he’s wearing waterproof makeup. Makeup he’s wearing to hide the dark circles underneath his eyes that weigh on him like his worsening depression.

She’s oblivious to the cold he’s recovering from, when two days ago he nearly broke his neck climbing the tree near Hajime’s window. He dragged Hajime onto the roof to watch the meteor shower, and reminded him wishes don’t come true if you say them aloud when asked what had him scrunching up his face in such concentration. She doesn’t have the faintest idea about the drawer filled with letters to the Man on the Moon. He’s been writing them once a week for the last eleven years. He doesn’t let Hajime read them, but he’s caught a glimpse or two. A lot ask for the Man to take him up to the stars the next time he rises.

Oikawa’s hands are getting sweaty. Homecoming Queen appears to have noticed. She offers to switch positions, but he doesn’t take it.

She’d know it’s fruitless to ask such a question when Oikawa Tōru is as stubborn as a mule.

She has no knowledge of that one time he spent 500 yen on a tarot reading, and keeps fortune cookies at hand for special occasions. He saves the Horoscope page of the newspaper and sometimes plans his entire week around them. He always takes a New Year fortune at the shrine because it’s tradition, but he never looks at it and disposes of it quickly because he doesn’t like knowing about the future, or entrusting others with his fate, despite his eagerness to know more.

His paradoxical love of spicy things, yet inability to handle sriracha is lost on her, as are the the speeches from _The Great Debaters_ and _The American President_ he’s memorized. He walks around his house barefoot, then complains about the cold. 

Oikawa’s cufflink rises slightly. She doesn’t notice the trace of ink on his wrist.

It’s a temporary tattoo, mostly due to his fear of needles despite his deep appreciation for Henna and Ed Hardy. The volleyball tat is slowly peeling away, about two and a half weeks old.

She doesn’t know what he sounds like when he sings Broadway show tunes while doing chores, or the way he acts like a cat when it rains, but resembles a dog in good weather. He talks to himself when doing homework in order to grasp abstract concepts and along with his keys and volleyball keychain in his pocket, there’s a stress ball for when he needs to punch things.

He once tried to Mary-Poppins his way out of this universe with a faded umbrella he found in the attic when he was thirteen. Pictures and diagrams made of crayon are all that are left of the elaborate runaway scheme they planned to create a tornado to visit Oz together. There were sleepovers held in closets in hopes of discovering Narnia, and countless smashing into walls hoping to get to King’s Cross.

The Homecoming Queen wraps her arms around Oikawa’s neck. 

She doesn’t know how much he hates when others touch him there, mostly because he thinks it’s gross how much he sweats from that area.

She doesn’t know about the hours he’s poured into his self-made comic book series, _What Lies Beyond Infinity_ , about aliens and humans and the loneliness of outer space and how the stars make it all worth it. He started it as a project to help him get over the fact he’s too tall to be an astronaut and aside from astronomy and volleyball, it’s what he dedicates the most time to. The haikus on his wrist written in green pen are unknown to her.

His double-jointed party tricks and uncanny ability to do the splits would be news to her. So would his hatred of buttered popcorn, or the time he once filled a glass with watermelon juice and drank it. The photo of the sandcastle he remade with a moat after accidentally knocking down a seven year old’s last year during a beach volleyball match isn’t on her phone.

She’s clueless to the fact volleyball _isn’t just a sport to him_ , it’s the only thing grounding him to Earth. He’s so desperate for the stars, to find those aliens ( _which are 100% real, Iwa-chan_ ), to tell them they’re not alone. That it’s okay that they don’t quite fit in, because neither does Tōru, and that’s okay.

The only thing anchoring him to this gravity field is his need to win and play and spike and serve, or else he’d be up in the stars, playing hide and go seek in the craters.

As they dance, Oikawa’s collar heats up more and more. 

She doesn’t know about the time he tried to cut his own hair, or the cheerleading he did one summer in middle school. She isn’t privy to how quickly he gets brain freezes, or that he only owns sing-along versions of Disney films.

_She doesn’t know anything._

She’s never seen him fight with his reflection, unable to see anything other than an ugly, distorted face in the mirror. She wasn’t the one who found him on the bathroom floor with a bottle of pills, eyes too wet to see, hand too shaky to pen that final letter, body too tired to fight the fierce hug he was pulled into because _idiot, how am I supposed to live without you?_

She doesn’t know how often he cries in the gym showers long after everyone’s left, how many times Hajime’s had to talk him out of a panic attack through the curtain. The sleepless nights, the tantrums, the breakdowns, the thrown books and pulled at hair and bitten nails and screams into the nothingness, scared it’s all there is are unknown to her.

She doesn’t know _him_.

But she could.

And it terrifies him.

Because she could. She so easily could.

The memories of the past are just that. The past. Just because memory lane is lined with pillow forts and chasing bugs and looking for rocket ships, doesn’t mean the road forward is the same.

Doesn’t mean he couldn’t open up to her, given enough time. Could show her his vulnerable side, the way he looks when he cries. Could learn to read his smiles and know what’s real, and what’s pretend. Doesn’t mean she won’t know eventually.

Doesn’t mean he can’t be  _replaced_.

Even if it’s not her, it’ll be _someone_.

Plenty of people can fill the role of Oikawa Tōru’s shadow. The one who stays back and watches him spread his wings and shine.

Hajime’s not special. Not at all. Not because of how long he’s known him, not because of how well he knows him, and certainly not because of his _feelings_ for him.

And it should scare him more, he thinks, because love is supposed to be a big, scary and terrifying thing, but it’s not. Not with Oikawa.

There is no falling for Oikawa Tōru.

Falling implies an end. It implies a beginning. It assumes there’s a way to explain what happens to his chest and his throat and his _soul_ when caramel eyes look at him. Falling would mean Hajime hasn’t always been in love with the man who shines brighter than any star in the multitude of galaxies.

Caramel eyes meet green.

The song stops.

So does Hajime’s world.

Homecoming King and Queen break apart, giggling nervously.

He can’t breathe.

He needs to get out.

So he darts out the door and fumbles with the stupid knot of his tie, because it’s better than thinking about the look in his captain’s eyes.

“Oi!”

_This can’t be happening._

It should be raining. It’s not. Everything else feels like the set-up for a climatic scene in the newest summer blockbuster. He looks to the skies, the way his best friend always has. He’s got a crick in his neck, but he gets why he does it. It sobers you up instantly. The fact that he hasn’t drank anything is irrelevant.

He can do this.

He has to.

“Hajime.”

_No. No, that’s not fair._

There’s a reason they don’t do first names, a reason he’s never explained in full but has nothing to do with it being annoying and everything to do with the twisting of his vital organs when he hears the syllables roll off his lips.

Has no one ever explained how problematic and hurtful to him this is? How he’s choking, and it’s already hard to breathe up here, where the air is thin, and gravity is a myth and there’s no spacesuit to protect him against the supernova that is Oikawa Tōru?

“Why’re you out here?” Even without his tie, he feels he’s hanging by a noose.

“Why are you?”

“I asked first.”

“Are we in middle school?”

Oikawa’s mouth curves into a slight smile. The slight smile that means he’s trying not to cry.

He can’t cry. He’s always been a crybaby, why can’t Hajime be the one to cry for once? He’s worked up an IOU in tears, and he wants to cash them in but he can’t very well do that if those chocolate eyes begin to fill with water.

“Needed air.” _Can’t breathe near you. Can’t breathe without you. Catch 22, like that book you love, am I right?_ “You?”

“Following you.”

He scoffs. It’s weak. “Stalker much?”

Oikawa takes the crown from his head. It’s messed up his hair so he looks like he did when they were eight and shared a futon for sleepovers. He looks younger. He looks tired. He looks … _beautiful_. But what else is new?

“You should go inside.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Neither move.

“Haruka-san is nice,” he tries again. Each word cuts his throat, but he continues. “Very cute.”

Oikawa’s hands find their way into his pockets, the way they always do when he gets fidgety. “Is she? Didn’t notice.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

The red string of fate which binds the two of them together has gotten awfully tangled, and several strands are wrapped right around his throat. He needs to cut himself loose, but he can’t. Not when Oikawa looks at him like that. 

“Congratulations, by the way. Always knew you were a king.”

_King of volleyball. King of the dorks. King of a world that is ill-equipped to contain you. King of my stupid beating heart._

Oikawa juts out his chin like the child he is. “Don’t say that.”

“Then what should I say?”

“My name.”

“Oikawa—”

“No, not that.”

He can’t. 

Hajime has always bent over backwards to get Oikawa what he needs, even when the brunet doesn’t know what that is, but this might just kill him.

“Haruka-san’s probably wondering where you are.”

“Let her wonder.”

This is bad. This is _wrong_.

Oikawa’s never been an easy person to read, but _Tōru_ has always been an open book to him. He’s closing up, leaving the chapter unfinished. He’d pry the pages open, but he’s scared of what he’ll find.

“You sure? I know she likes you.”

“I don’t like her.”

Hajime hums without a melody. “You could. I mean, you could try. She’s in some of our university prep classes, dunno if you noticed.”

“You have?”

Only in retrospect. Only now that he realizes she’s a threat to the happy ending he knew he’d never have, but hoped for anyway.

Hajime shrugs. “Just saying. I’m sure your mom would like Haruka-san—”

“This isn’t about her!”

The ace takes a step back.

“Sorry.” Tōru runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. But … I mean, this is about us, isn’t it? It’s always been about us.”

Hajime can’t breathe. “I didn’t know there was an us.”

“Isn’t there?” There’s something desperate in his voice, and to think about it too much would light the dangerous flames of hope in his chest, so he squashes them down and prays it’ll rain to put out the embers his traitorous mind isn’t willing to.

“Oikawa—”

“Hajime.”

They’ve made it so far with Hajime being hopelessly in love and Oikawa none the wiser. Of course his luck would run out now. The crown, though no longer on his head, reminds Hajime of his place. The servant to the king.

“Please. Don’t.”

He doesn’t ask much. He’s _never_ asked much, but he’s asking this because he won’t survive this. _Can’t_ survive this.

Let them graduate. Let them go their own ways on good terms. Promise to call each other every week, and eventually forget. Let him become a mere memory, a face that Oikawa used to know. Let Hajime bask in the radiant light of him for as long as he can. Don’t turn out the lights before he’s ready. Before he’s steeled himself appropriately. Before he can collect himself enough to save face and has a bucket ready to catch all his pieces that will surely fragment with the severing of this relationship.

“Is there an us?” Oikawa presses, because of course he does.

Hajime was never going to be ready. He was never going to be able to let go.

“I—”

“Because my mom seems to think there is. She’s always setting out a plate for you before you even suggest staying for dinner. Pretty sure the whole team does, when you let me sleep on your shoulder on our way back from competitions.” He looks at the ground. “Sometimes I do too. Sometimes I think you bought the milk bread you offer me just so you could see me smile. I’m selfish like that, self-indulgent. You knew that already though, didn’t you?”

Tōru tilts his head to the sky, and he looks beautiful with his neck exposed, tie loose around his neck, jacket unbuttoned and shoes caked in mud from the rain that fell the night before, unable to make an appearance as Hajime’s world stops spinning like he’s in some low-budget Hallmark movie. 

“You’ve always seen through me, why should now be any different? Sometimes you look at me and I think we’re on the same page, but other times it’s like we’re not even on the same bookshelf.

“Mom wants to know your size for an ugly Christmas sweater she plans on making you, and Takeru thinks we’re dating. Akira thinks you have to be in love with me to put up with my crazy conspiracy theories.” Tōru looks at him.

The air is getting thin.

“Is she right?”

That’s a loaded question.

He doesn’t know what to answer. 

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.

They’re supposed to graduate and go their ways and Hajime will one day turn on the TV and there will be Tōru, on the big screen, talking with some reporter about how proud he is to be Japan’s official setter for the Olympic games. A few years down the road he’s supposed to get a letter in the mail inviting him to Tōru’s wedding, and he’ll go, even though it hurts, and he won’t even pretend to have a date, just sit back and watch. The brunet will find his eyes in the crowd and look confused, wondering if a stranger was let into the reception, and then they’ll get talking and his eyes will light up and he’ll say sorry he never kept in touch, and he probably still has him saved in his phone as _Iwa-chan_ , and he’ll smile and he’ll be fine and he’ll go home to an empty apartment and dream of chasing fireflies and mud cakes and the sting in the palm of his hand when he spiked one of _his_ tosses. And life will go on. He’ll be separated from Oikawa Tōru, and the air will be easier, yet harder to breathe.

He’s got it all planned. It’s grim, but it’s reality, and he doesn’t have the strength to indulge in fantastic realms of possibility. He’s never been the strong one.

“I—”

“Because if you do, I’ll be so good,” says Tōru and Hajime’s breath catches in his throat as his lungs try to collapse on themselves. “We could watch all those Godawful _Godzilla_ remakes and we’d only watch _ET_ like, on our anniversary, and you don’t even have to watch it with me! I’ll stop doing all that shit that annoys you, I’ll wear socks when you tell me to, and I’ll take my medication, I swear!

“You could cheat on me, and that’d be okay too, I wouldn’t get mad. I’d cheat on me if I was stuck with me. You’d be the only thing on my mind, as if you aren’t all the time now anyway, and I just …” Tōru sniffles. “I’d make it good for you, I can pretend to be smooth or whatever the fuck the other girls seem to think I am, I’ll fake it till I make it, try my best and never let you know how much it means to me if you’re just in it for a quick fuck or something …”

_Shit, he’s crying._

“Please want me. Please. I don’t … I can’t be king on my own. Not without you.”

He’s crossing the short distance between them before he knows what he’s doing, wrapping his arms tightly around his best friend, the one who ran into the street after a volleyball and nearly got murdered by a car for it.

Tōru’s trembling in his arms. His knees are giving out beneath him, and that’s not fair because Hajime’s legs are made of poorly constructed origami and his chest is too tight and it would be really pathetic of them to fall in the grass right now, with the rented suits and everything. 

“Shittykawa … you’re such a fucking liar,” he mutters into his ear. “You can’t act for shit.”

Tōru lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but also like he’s choking, and he bunches the fabric of Hajime’s jacket.

“It’ll need ironing,” he whispers.

“Doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t. Nothing matters, because he’s breathless and for once it doesn’t hurt.

He can’t say it though, because he’s spent so long clamping his jaw shut he doesn’t even know if he can form the words, so he holds tight enough for his knuckles to turn white and whispers his name like it’s precious and forbidden and the key to the secrets of the universe.

And it is. To his universe.

“Hajime …”

He’s crying, they’re both crying. They’re both ugly criers, but it hardly matters because it’s been over a decade and though he’s dreamt up many endings to the possible story of their lives together, it was never like this. This is unexpected and unplanned and perfect. Because it’s _them_.

“Rule with me?”

Hajime pulls away ever so slightly, and presses his forehead against Tōru’s. Against the fire that burns at the centre of the galaxy, of the world. The axis on which he spins, and the point of reference for every choice and every thought he’s ever had or made.

The oxygen’s been sucked out of his lungs and it burns _so good._

“As you wish.”


End file.
